A WOODLAND MURDER. 47 



fish life, and was fairly hot in rubber boots 

 before I reached the footbridge and looked over 

 at the small but rich preserve above, with the 

 familiar Naboth-like longing. The river was as 

 still as a pond, and not a fish was moving 

 although there were clouds of fly in evidence. 

 As the sun sank behind the fir clump, the whole 

 air turned into one of those evenings we have 

 often remarked on, when the atmosphere seems 

 filled with golden dust. And indeed, as far 

 as fishing went, it proved just as unfavourable. 



Wading over to the patch of watercress above 

 salmon pool I peeped through the dry reeds 

 into * the pocket,' and was pleased to notice a 

 good fish rise three or four times. It is a poor 

 chance to do much with a dry fly down stream, 

 but for a wonder he took it just before it began 

 to drag: and I had him. He was thirteen 

 ounces as it turned out, and fought well, bolting 

 right under the sycamore and obliging me to 

 cross the river of course playing him from 

 above all the time. Well, not another thing 

 could I touch. The flies were literally in 

 myriads but what the fish were taking during 

 all the evening rise they would not tell, and the 

 result was that by the time I finished up at ivy 

 pool it was well past ten. 



The moon was up, and a fine brown owl flew 

 out of the trees and circled close over my head 

 and then its mate. I was so startled for a 

 moment that I stopped throwing and watched to 

 see them alight, and could just make out one 

 sitting on a broad lateral branch exactly 



